There’s something in the air this morning.
A kind of glittering hope that only lives among the bright, moving images and opaque air of New York City;
the slither of silver, on grey, rain-ridden clouds.
There’s something quite magical about the sound of moving life against the azure blue sky.
‘Tis a reminder of why one must believe in one’s illusions, despite the eb and flow of mundane life—even though life is anything but mundane.
There’s something in the air this morning and I’m not quite sure what it is.